


To be found

by frozenpapers



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Coping, F/M, One Year Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-12 23:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20164039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozenpapers/pseuds/frozenpapers
Summary: “I found him, Joyce”In which, Joyce receives a phone call.





	To be found

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written a fic in a while, so I am, by all means, rusty.

Folding clothes, storing away memories of a man that had once breathed life between his lips—it had become a habit, hasn’t it? Putting them into boxes, sealing them with plastic, and detailing each cardboard with tears shed so silently—a sickening routine she wanted to get rid of.

_When will this end? _

It echoes—the question. Lingering within new walls of thin lumber, bouncing back to haunt her, to haunt the family that had never felt the normal stagnation of life, and had only been introduced to disruption, to the essence of chaos. She had wanted to move out of that fandango, long ago between her abusive childhood, and Lonnie, but it seems like as she furthers into life, as she runs away from it, it’s entangled her further and now—now there’s no room to breathe, no room for liberty.

Life was never fair to her. Never fair to her children. The moment they latch onto something good, the surface breaks until all they had between their fingers had been speckles of dust of what once had been something great. Often, she wondered if she had been cursed, if whoever was up there had a thing for her, had a detest. She never seemed to catch a break, a breather.

She was tired—so, _so_ tired.

With the new neighborhood, and three children to raise—she was exhausted, most especially with the weight of Hopper’s death grasping desperately at their shoulders—a _baggage_ they failed to shake back in Hawkins.

How _could_ they? How could they ever do so when he was a paramount in their lives, a luminescence within a darkened tunnel, her strength when she’s lost hers at times, and her children’s father when they needed one. He was her partner as she was his.

The shrill of a telephone had broken her trance, allowing her amber gaze to flutter away from the boxes—slowly, obviously dazed. A crooked back was straightened, and there she’s felt her age and how long she’s been on the floor. Clammy hands found each other as fingers desperately tried to loosen the dust that had clung to her skin as those doe eyes had found themselves darting towards the windows.

_How long has she been here for? _

The intonation of the telephone’s ring had unbearably increased as time was delayed due to contemplation. A profanity escaped chapped lips, and she wondered, _where the hell were her kids? _

“Alright! Alright!” She had exclaimed in surrender as she had assumed her height and walked towards the hallway.

Winding halls and dimmed lights had welcomed her, a long floor of carpeted floors. Unbidden, she’d thought to herself, _Hopper would have loved this. _

A long sigh exclaimed as hand had found the loud red phone perched against turquoise walls. Shaking fingers had engulfed its entirety, head bowed, long tresses of auburn veiling chiseled features as Joyce’s eyes had found momentary purchase on her worn out shoes. She didn’t have the energy to speak to someone, but then, she’d thought, the person on the other end of the line could be _anyone_; and with Eleven joining school, she just couldn’t allow herself not to answer the phone. There could be an emergency with her powers, and though she had seemed responsible enough not to be checked up on, still, you can never rule out mishaps.

Sighing to herself once again—for the umpteenth time as it had seemed, she had lifted the phone off its receiver, ending the shrilling torture. Placing it against her ear instead, she’d closed her eyes in exasperation, just wanting to be left alone for a short while. There was a bottle of wine waiting for her in the cupboard, and leftover macaroni from last night. She could switch on some of the soap operas, and maybe fall asleep on the couch until the morning. Jonathan was going to take the kids out for dinner, so maybe she can…

“**_Joyce!_**”

…And just like that,

“Murray,” his name came out like a sigh, as though she was a mother admonishing a child. Of course, it would be him. It had to be. The man was as persistent as an aching tooth.

“**_I found him, Joyce. I found him._**” His excitement had been colorful in all its entirety, but it hadn’t been enough to color her grey.

Though some would have considered the news exciting, though some would have leapt for joy, she didn’t. She couldn’t torture herself with false hope. She cannot do this to herself, to the kids. They moved to Mississippi for a reason—to get away from all these hellish events; she’s not taking them back there.

“_Murray_,” admonishing, her lack of patience present in every syllable. There was a mingled sigh there, wanting and waiting to be released.

“**_No, no. Just _**listen**_ to me, Joyce. I found coordinates that would help us track him. We can find him, Joyce. He’s not _**dead**_!_**”

She wanted to be excited. She wanted to believe in that, to scream, to resign herself with the thought that she would be reunited with him again. But, she can’t. Those words were naught but hollow, bled nothing but deception.

“He’s not—Let’s not…”

_It’s been a year_, she wanted to say. A year of speculation. A year of hoping that he was alive, that somehow he hadn’t died right in front of her eyes—that maybe the Russians had gotten to him on time. That they had, somehow, used him to get answers, held captive in a dingy basement in Brooklyn, or maybe Queens. But, he died right in front of her eyes. She’d had closed the gate. Anyone who would have gotten to him would have been as fast lightning, would have been faster than a millisecond. That was close to impossible.

“It’s been a year, Murray. We _can’t_ keep doing this. Hopper is **_dead_**, and I think it’s time we accept that.” She’d had interjected in between his rumbling, slicing through and killing his hope at the same time. There was no point hoping.

“**_You don’t understand, Joyce. I really located him. Now, if you’d just listen, I know how and where we could find him.” _**

“_No!_ **_You_** listen to me. **_You_** don’t understand. He **_died_** right in front of my eyes. Anyone who could have found him would have been faster than light. He’s **_dead_**. We can’t keep going back and forth like this. We tried to find him once, and I had to watch my kids try to cope with the failure when we ended up with nothing. I **_can’t_** put them through this again. I **_can’t_** put myself through this again. What don’t you understand about that? And, why do you care so much? Last I checked, you couldn’t stand the both of us.” 

Voice tinged with venom had resonated within the walls, and she thought, if the house hadn’t been so big, the neighbors would have called already. Silence had met her fume, but she could hear him breathing. He was possibly contemplating his words, or if he should say anything at all. She knew he was persistent, so most likely, she’d hear something from him again—a quip, a grunt.

Pressing her back against the wall, she’d forced herself to be submerged with the calm. It was then she had noticed the tears that had littered that apples of her checks, and the ones that had continued to trickle. She was so tired of this.

“**_I’m sorry. But, if you’d ever change your mind, you know my number_**.”

A click of the telephone, indicating that the line was already dead, that she was already left alone. Carefully, Joyce had placed it back whence she had taken it before allowing herself to sink on the soft floor. Drawing her knees to her chest, she’d rested her head against the wall and glanced on the ceiling.

_Hopper wouldn’t have let her wallow like this. _


End file.
